“It is very, very difficult,” she continued, looking steadfastly at the ground. There are pretty much three types, those that accept, and those who run away, and those who fight. She counted three on the way to the train and four more on the crowded car that would have gladly taken him to bed with not so much as a word. By this time, the churchyard was crowded with spectators, some of whom dispersed in different directions in quest of the other robber. She had gladly lowered her eyes as she had been instructed to in front of the fine ladies and lords, as she was more interested in their clothing and fripperies than their faces. Empty, silly, coarse brutes. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade.
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